


Fall On Your Knees

by saltandbyrne



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Multiple Orgasms, Rimming, Size Kink, Stockings, Worship, yes ma'am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 02:25:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12901968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: She keeps the flowers in her window for three days.





	Fall On Your Knees

**Author's Note:**

> Dipping my toe in something new here because Kastle has consumed my life. Please join me in hell.

She keeps the flowers in her window for three days.

They’re different flowers, of course.  The ones he gave her are long-rotten and moldering on some Staten Island garbage heap.

She’s always dressed up.  Perpetually working and perpetually well-shod, pumps and pencil skirts and prim little buttoned-up blouses that make his fingers twitch.  She looks like one of the teachers he would have beat his dick raw to in middle school.

Some things don’t change.

She’s an ocean of blues tonight, with a blouse to match her eyes and a skintight skirt the color of a starless night.  She’s standing in nothing but a pair of inky-sheer stockinged feet when she answers the door but he spies a kicked-off pair of shoes (slingbacks, Maria always hated slingbacks) toed against her floorboard.

He always takes his hat off.  She’s a lady.

She’s tired around the eyes and tight around the mouth.  You’re not supposed to talk shop with a woman but Karen is, well.  She’s Karen.  She’s cracking a beer open (fancier shit than he’d ever buy but he likes it) and tucking her legs into the couch and telling him everything about her latest story, some asshole who deals in little girls and lots of money.

“You want me to take care of him?”

He’s only half-kidding and she’s only half-smiling when she says, “Kind of?”

“Prison’s worse for a piece of shit like that.”

Frank believes in final solutions but there’s something to be said for the cosmic justice of incarcerated sodomy.  She lays her case out for him, piece by piece, methodical as always.  It’s the smell of her hair that he dreams of at night but it’s her brilliant mind that makes his stomach clench when he lets his day dreams wander too far.

There’s nothing Karen Page can’t do if she sets her mind to it.

Her calling card is always white.  He hadn’t really thought about it, white roses, just figured they’d be easier to see against her sill.  Every Sunday she buys a big bouquet of something riotously white at the Union Square farmer’s market. 

This isn’t her first beer and her cheeks are the faintest pink when she unfurls her legs and plants her feet in his lap. 

Frank had mitts for hands before he’d picked up his first piece.  Knuckles knit back together a little thicker each time, a Radio Shack worth of nuts and bolts and plates for good measure, scars with names and souls and the one across his left hand from a simple kitchen accident the first and only time he’d tried to recreate his mama’s ziti.  Karen’s size seven is tiny in his palm.

He strokes his thumb up the curve of her arch, digging until she sighs and tilts her head back, beer forgotten between her fingers.  He snags a callus on the delicate weave of her stockings and carefully smooths it back.  He’s always gentle until she tells him not to be. 

“Take care of me, Frank.”

There’s a kind of woman who likes a man like him but they never say shit like that, demure and demanding all at once.  She grinds her heel against his cock because she knows he’s hard, just like she knows he won’t touch himself unless she needs it.

Frank’s not big on talk, especially of the “small” or “what are we” variety.  If Karen needs an hour of his time or a gallon of his blood she can have it, plain and simple.

He slides his hands up her legs, smooth silk over lithe muscle.  She’s built like a ballerina, like he could open a jewel box and watch her twirl for him forever.  Diamonds are the strongest thing on earth.

That tight skirt bunches up around her sweetcream hips, her thighs spilling out soft over the tight weft of her stockings.  Her panties are the palest blue and if he let himself look long enough he’d see the damp spot darkening her slit.

He picks her up with one hand, because she’s nothing in his arms, because he can, because she likes it.  There’s nothing sweeter than a pitbull on a leash, he knows that better than anyone.

Her arms are light around his shoulders but she kisses hard, always does.  She wraps her legs around his waist for the short stumble to her bedroom.  Her bed’s always made.

She’s got her blouse off before he sets her on the ground.  He’ll keep kissing her for as long as he can, while she tugs off his sweatshirt and kicks her skirt down and huffs at his shirt until he hauls it over his head.  She pulls off, watching him, eyes heavy.  He flushes down to every ugly scar criss-crossing his chest, bashful in every cut-up part of himself.  Women look at him all the time, look at him like they’re scared, like they want to fuck him, want him to rough them up and a million other things he’s not interested in.

She looks at him like he’s good for her.

She’s warm against his chest, long neck craning up to kiss him while her delicate, muckraker fingers slide into the tops of her stockings.  His hand swallows hers up when he presses over it.

“Keep ‘em on?”

She smiles against his lips, hissing out a breath that makes him shiver all over.  She stalks the few steps backwards to her bed, her eyes never leaving him, holding him still better than a hand around his throat.

Her panties land in a pool next to the bed.  Peaches and cream all over, she perches on the edge of the bed, knees tucked together and Frank’s heart in his throat.  He wants it, wants it so bad.  Peace is the absence of desire but suffering is the only thing that makes him feel truly alive any more.

She spreads her legs and Frank falls to his knees.

She doesn’t like him gentle for this part.  He doesn’t care if he snags her stockings now, work-rough thumbs leaving tiny tears in their wake as he slides his hands up, up, up.  His two-day stubble doesn’t do much better.  He runs his teeth against the faint horizon of her stocking-tops, where they pinch her a little, where she’s tender and soft and shivers for him when he sucks a thank you into her bare skin, drags his lips in a long please up to the crease of her thigh, breathes a may I onto the pulse-pink of her mound.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” Frank whispers, close enough that the strawberry fields curls she keeps in a neat hedgerow above her lips tickle him.

He breathes her in, greedy for her where she’s earthy and animal-warm, wet for him.  He’s always envied women this secret arousal.  Anyone walking by could see how hard his cock is right now but the dew drop that seeps out of her slit is for him and him alone.

“Frank.”

His name on her lips still thrills him.  Her voice is shaky already, a match to the treble of her stomach as she leans back and runs her index finger down his good cheekbone. 

Frank’s tongue is ploughman-built like the rest of him, thick and ready to work.  He chases the glisten off her pussy lips with the tip of it, barely parting them, just letting himself taste her.  Drunk off it before his first full sip, like always.

He teases around her clit until she’s rolling up to meet him, hips rising off the bed with every near miss.  His chin is soaked with her by the time he finally laps his tongue over her clit.

Frank’s built for two extremes, big hands and big ears and a nose with nothing left to break.  The sounds of someone in pain are so similar to the sounds Karen makes when she bucks into his mouth and fists her hand into his hair.  Sounds like that mean he’s doing his job right.

He slings her legs over his back, noses into her cunt, licks and sucks and growls his own pleasure at the wet throb of her as he works her up to her first orgasm.  His dick is an afterthought, a steady pulse between his legs that’s negligible to the heartbeat of her clit sucked between his teeth.  She can take it.

He only stops long enough to rub his face against her pussy as she comes, chin to cheek because he can, because she doesn’t stop him, because she’ll feel it tomorrow when she’s tucked back into her teacher skirt and sweater set.  He looks up at her, cocks half a smile on his shining mouth.

Whether he’s fighting or fucking, Frank’s not happy till it’s all over his face.

“Let me do it again?”

Her legs are still twitching against his hands but she arches up for him.  Her chest heaves, the peaks of her handful tits rising and falling as she reaches for him.  He leans into her hand, closing his eyes as she strokes along the cruciferous bloom of his ruined ear.

You can only take so many hits before your outsides match your insides.

He fucks into her with his tongue now, where she’s soaked and open for him, drags his nose against the soft diamond of her pubes and drowns in her all around him.  This is the closest to heaven he’ll ever get, the razor focus of her cunt in his mouth, the slick of her pussy juice all over his face like battle blood.  His cock aches, leaks neglected into his boxers, hones his hunger for getting her off for the blessed minutes it takes to silence the endless rampage in his mind. 

She says his name when she comes.  She says his name.

His chin smears against her stockings, trembling, muscles cramping into familiar, welcome pain.  Frank’s at his best when he’s in his body, when things strain and tear and pull at him, when he remembers that he’s alive and what’s more, so is she.

“Karen.”

Frank almost comes in his fucking pants when she pushes his face lower.

Maria never let him do this.  He’d tried once and once only, before the kids, before she was a wife.  It’s not the sort of things wives do where he’s from.

There are parts of Frank’s face he never feels.  Nerve damage.  Fists and boots and bricks and bullets, things healed but not forgotten, knit shut the wrong way. 

Every nerve in his body lights up when he licks into Karen’s asshole.

He hikes her hips up, palms her perfect, chalkboard wet dream ass, lets himself look until she squirms just right.  She’s a blusher. 

Red’s the one who’s big on the man upstairs but Frank’s a good Catholic boy at heart.  He’d had high school sweethearts who were Hershey virgins, good girls who saved their pussies for their husbands but let him slip in the back door with enough sweet talk. 

He doesn’t talk much anymore but he can feel the growl in his throat as he points his tongue and gets inside her.  Tight and copper-warm on his tongue, she makes noises Frank’s never heard and never intends to forget.  She moans through her teeth, grips the sheets and his hair like she’s going to rip both right off the bed. 

He slides his thumb in between her lips, smearing slick where she’s leaking for his fuck-sore jaw working at her ass and Christ, she’s not alone.  The head of his cock is soaked and raw against his crotch, biting every time he shifts to get deeper inside her.  It thrills him like he’s a teenager again, like his biggest problem is hoping they won’t get caught in the rectory storage closet and everyone he loves isn’t dead.  Almost everyone.

“More,” and she barely says it loud enough for him to hear, just a ghost of sound between her lips. 

Franks always knows his orders.

She opens easy for his cunt-slick fingers. Frank doesn’t give a single shit about her past but he’s happy it’s not her first time either.  Frank’s a blues man at heart, better suited to fourths and fifths than firsts.

“Do it, Frank.”

He buries his fingers, looks up past the columns of her legs, presses into her and raises his eyebrow, needs to know what she needs him to be.

Karen bites her lip and nods once.

“Yes, m’am.”

He smiles it against her leg.  She chides him for his formality but he doesn’t miss the way she twitches when he says it.

He eases up and sucks his fingers into his mouth, licks the taste of her off himself not so much to be sexy as to tell her there’s no part of her he doesn’t want.  To say the ugliest thing inside you is still bright enough to blind me.  She groans as he circles his fingers around her kiss-warmed rim.

“I’m, uh, gonna need some – “

He’s genuinely startled when a Magnum and a clear bottle of lube glance off his forehead.  Atta girl.

His bad knee barks at him when he stands up but it’s nothing compared to the rend in his chest when he looks down at her.  He leans down, fingers absently feeling for his bootlaces.

She stabs her toe against his thigh and leans up on her elbows to smirk at him.

“Keep ‘em on.”

Her sense of humor is almost as beautiful as her bleeding heart. 

He shoves his pants down like he’s back-pressed behind his barracks, just enough to get his cock out and he’s so fucking hard for her.  A fat line of precome oozes down to the floor. 

Frank was a teenager the first time he got his cock in someone’s ass but he’s gotten better at a lot of things since then.  He suits up and slicks everything in sight, as generous with the lube as he is with his mouth.  Sex should be messy, sex should squelch and squeal and grunt when he gets the head of his dick just barely inside her and feels his insides go to shreds with want.  She’s so tight it hurts his dick and while he’ll take any inch of her she offers with undying gratitude, this is his favorite way to fuck.

You get a taste for certain things in the military.

He sinks slowly, softly, savors every nasty sound she makes as she pushes open for him.  You can’t do this without sounding a little animal.  Torture is the absence of time and Frank could languish in this hell forever.  He’s always been good at holding himself at bay and he’d cheek-bite his dick into submission for the rest of his life if she wanted him to.

Frank’s built for two things and she doesn’t need him to fight tonight.

He buries his cock deep and doesn’t stop until her toes curl against his cheek.  She’s tiny underneath him, bent almost in half with one of her stockings crumpling around her shaking knee.  He curls over her, covers her body like he has so many times before, every inch of him working for her and her alone, heedless of the strain on his neck, the way his torn shoulder bristles when he leans a certain way. 

It makes her say his name when he curls his hips just right.

There’s no part of Karen he doesn’t want to see but she’s not afraid of him either.  Frank lets his mouth hang open, lets himself growl and grit out everything he’s feeling, his blood singing as he fucks and pants and mangles her name through his poorly-healed lip.  He probably sounds terrifying from the outside, slavering like a dog as he splits her in two.  Frank’s a modest guy but his cock’s as thick as the rest of him, thicker than most if his bunk time show-and-tell sessions are any gauge.  He probably looks like a monster but Karen Page carries a gun in her purse and could kill him with a single word.

“It feel good?”

Frank swallows thick, buries his nose in her neck and the scent of her skin does more to fuck him up than the high school clutch of her ass. 

“Jesus, Frank, yes.”

She grabs his wrist, slides his hand down to her pussy, slips his thumb into her soaked slit.  When he inches up to brush over her swollen clit she clenches so hard that he shakes.

“I want to feel you come so fucking bad.”

He’s careful, doesn’t press to hard, knows enough to know it might be too much for her but that’s not his girl.  She presses her palm over his thumb and grinds him in small circles, her voice going to gravel.

“Yeah, fuck.”

Her forehead’s damp with sweat when she presses it against his, never as beautiful as when she’s flushed and sweating and undone for him.  His face is filthy but she cups her hand behind his neck and pulls him closer.  

He fucks her fast, hard enough to hear with short, measured jabs of his hips timed with each swipe of his thumb over her clit.  He can’t look away from her face to see how open she is for him, how he disappears inside her with no resistance, how she’s so wet it’s dripping down around his balls and soaking into her sheets. 

“Frank, Frank, want you – “

She seizes up around him, toes curling and her body shuddering around his cock, eyes half-focused on him and wherever she goes when she comes.  Billy taught him that, how the French call it the little death, that moment of bliss where you leave your body and everything goes white.  Frank falls after her, teeth bared, chest dripping sweat, cock pulsing so hard he’s afraid he’s gonna bust the condom.  He’s still not used to them.  Karen’s the only one since it happened.

She stills under him, wraps her arms and legs around him, blankets him over her.  Her hair smells like sea salt.

“You good?”

She answers with a grunted syllable that makes his chest swell a little.  She’s done. 

He wants to go soft inside her, stay like this for as long as he can but he grits his teeth and grabs the rolled edge as he pulls out.  He ties it off as best he can and fuck, these things are awkward.  But it’s better this way, better he fucks her like she’s saving herself for a husband, not the half a man that barely lives inside him anymore.

He inches into the wet spot and pulls her against his chest.  She kisses him after, because Miss Page might be the righteous voice of justice New York needs but there’s a part of Karen that loves the dirt as much as he does. 

He’ll leave some new flowers for her tomorrow.

 


End file.
